


Silhouette

by Gummy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, i don't even know man, mindless angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:39:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8699374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gummy/pseuds/Gummy
Summary: “I don’t dream.” Amélie says.“At all?”“No. Not anymore.”You don’t know how to answer this. Widowtracer angst/comfort or something of the sort.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what this is. However it IS in second person as a bit of personal practice but maybe give it a chance if that POV turns you off.
> 
> Hopefully you enjoy it.

There are countless pairs of decaying, clammy hands with twisted gnarled fingers grasping desperately for your neck. You can feel their cracked, jagged fingernails just barely scraping at your throat and that’s what brings you swinging out of another nightmare. Your breathing comes in deep, shuddering gasps and sweat rolls down your cheeks in freezing lines as you can still feel their rough, scabby flesh tearing at your own.  

You rip the thick blanket off your body and let the bright blue light from your chronal accelerator wash over the walls and illuminate the corners of your room, eyes moving wildly in search of your attackers. There are none. But your heart won’t stop hammering away as every slight brush of blanket or clothes against your skin sends it back into a panicked frenzy. It feels like they’re everywhere.

You already know who the hands belong to. Thousands of innocent lives that couldn’t be saved even though it was your job to protect them. Your only job. And you couldn’t even do that.

Then you feel it. A real hand on your back. Panic takes over your thought process as your vision goes white with fear. You reach under your pillow and grab your pistol, pointing it at the threat. Your finger is squeezing the trigger, ready to kill but you stop as the white fades and reality flood back.

She doesn’t look shocked or even afraid that the tip of your gun is inches away from her forehead, but she is looking at you curiously. You’re chest is heaving and your entire body is trembling with adrenaline as you keep your arms rigid, still too afraid to lower your weapon.

“I suggest you point that somewhere else.” She says in a low voice, not angry enough to be considered a growl.

“Amélie.” You manage to say in a grating whisper, still attempting to anchor yourself back into the present. You drop the pistol from your hand where it clatters noisily to the floor. A horrible rotting feeling is quickly flooding your stomach and your vision blurs as the tears finally come.

It’s not unusual to cry after a nightmare. Sometimes it's the only thing to remind you that you’re still here. But you don’t want to cry in front of her so you grit your teeth and look away, hoping to save just a sliver of your pride.

“Why are you still here?” You ask, still not looking around. You hate how your voice cracks ever so slightly, but you’re sure she picked up on the sound. Observant as ever, Amélie never seems to miss a detail. Even now you can feel those amber eyes burrowing into the back of your head but you don’t want to see that judging look.

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” Amélie says.

“You’re usually gone when I wake up.” You say, trying hard not to snap at her. She doesn’t answer right away, remaining silent so long that you think that she might’ve snuck away through the window, quiet as ever.  

“You were talking in your sleep.” She finally says, “Thrashing around.” You squeeze your still trembling knees to your chest and feel your eyes begin to prickle with tears again. And you hate it. You hate looking like a weak little child who is afraid of something silly like a bad dream.

“I see terrible things in my sleep.” You mutter over your knees to the wall, “If it bothers you, you don’t have to stay.”

“On the contrary, chéri,” Amélie says, “I am curious.”

“Curious about what?” You finally turn and face her. Amélie’s gorgeous, angular face is questioning and something tells you that she’s not just trying to humor you.

“What do you dream about?” She asks, “Why does it make you frightened?” She seems sincere and not patronizing. But something puzzles you.

“You mean, you don’t have nightmares about what you’ve done?” You say carefully, watching her face for any sort of reaction. You’ve made significant progress with “Widowmaker”, as your teammates call her, and sometimes you can see bits of her emotion returning. Sometimes it’s a very slight smile when you tell a joke, or even a tiny amount of anger when you tell a bad joke. So you watch her carefully.

“No.” She finally answers, “Why would I?” You lean your back against the headboard of your bed and sigh. You figured she would answer this way. After all, she _was_ specifically trained not to feel remorse for the atrocious crimes she undoubtedly committed in her time on the battlefield.

“I don’t understand how you don’t dream about them.” You say, barely above a whisper, “I can’t get away from them.” Your body feels numb. It feels like all those months you spent as a ghost; unable to touch or feel anything, even your own heartbeat. You can feel it now, humming away against your ribcage and it calms you down.

“I don’t dream.” Amélie says and it’s so sudden that you almost jump.

“At all?”

“No. Not anymore.”

You don’t know how to answer this.

“Maybe Talon did that on purpose,” You suggest weakly after a moment, “Y’know, so you wouldn’t end up like me.”

“Perhaps.” Amélie hums, “But you never answered my question.”

“Which one?”

“Why do they frighten you?”

You don’t want to answer. Instead you bring your knees back up to your chest and wrap your arms around them. It makes you feel like you’re holding yourself together.

“Everyone is afraid of ghosts.” You finally say, “Especially if you knew them before they became one.” It’s the best answer you can think of and you hope Amélie will let the subject drop. There’s no way she could ever comprehend something like this, much less show empathy. That kind of emotion was tortured out of her and wasn’t coming back for a long time and a with lot of therapy.    

You’re exhausted. You want to roll over and attempt to salvage at least a couple hours of sleep before the morning comes. You let your head fall back against the wall, letting out a tired sigh and running your still trembling hands through your damp hair. You know that sleep will never come no matter how heavy your body seems to feel.

“Sorry for sticking my gun in your face.” You say to Amélie with a small attempt at a smile, “Not that I haven’t done it a million times before.” You see the tiniest lift of her lips.

“As I have done the same to you as well.” Amélie shrugs, crossing her arms and looking out towards the window. City lights wash over her face, throwing her sharp cheekbones into relief. She looks stunning.

“So, why are you still here?” You ask somewhat timidly. It almost doesn’t sound like your voice, so low and careful. Amélie continues to stare out towards the cluster of illuminated skyscrapers, seeming to mull over your question.

“The view from your balcony is excellent.” She says simply, “I wanted to look at the late night city.”  

“Ah, thanks.” You mumble, tracing little circles over your chronal accelerator. She’s looking at you now, eyes reflecting the lights of surrounding city.

“And...you looked terrified while you slept.” Amélie adds hesitantly, almost unsure as if she didn’t know how to handle whatever inkling of emotion she was feeling. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You blink once. Twice. A third time in total confusion. The things coming out of her mouth were completely out of character but you know they must be sincere. She turns back to her view of the skyline before you can utter a single word.

Instead you lay back down and face the wall, feeling like you could sleep for a thousand years. Your eyes start to droop and you can feel how riddled with exhaustion your body really is. A cold hand runs along your arm and it almost sends you back into a panicked frenzy until you quickly realize that it’s Amélie. She’s turned towards you and is gently stroking up your arm and along your cheeks with her soft fingers.

“This is very unlike you.” You say into your pillow, not ungratefully but perplexed. The feeling is immensely comforting and you can already feel yourself falling back asleep.

“Amélie and Widowmaker are two different people.” She says, “I know that now. Since Overwatch agreed to take me back in.”

Your brain is too foggy for you to formulate an articulate answer so you settle for something of a contented sigh as you feel Amélie lay down next to you. Her cool arms wrap around you and you can just barely feel her slow, faint heartbeat.

Slow, but there nonetheless.


End file.
